


The Saints of Sekukkulu

by elderkevinmckinley



Series: A Merry McPriceley Christmas [2]
Category: The Book of Mormon - Ambiguous Fandom, The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Canon Compliant, Christmas, Christmas Presents, Descriptions of poverty, Emotions, Feelings, First Kiss, Getting Together, Holiday Fic Exchange, Humor, M/M, McKinley POV, Romance, Set in Uganda, Slice of Life, Teacher!Kevin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-22 12:21:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17059688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elderkevinmckinley/pseuds/elderkevinmckinley
Summary: When Kevin Price finds out that the children of Kitguli have never gotten presents on Christmas morning, he decides to take matters into his own hands.Or the one where Kevin tries to be Santa and Connor is Sherlock Holmes.





	The Saints of Sekukkulu

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheNako](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNako/gifts).



> Wrote this fic for @elderfreakingafrica on Tumblr / @TheNako on ao3 for the 2018 bom secret santa exchange! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!! <3

“Alright, everyone, gather ‘round, gather ‘round,” Connor says to the group of eager villagers as they all pile into the meeting room. As the pleasant hum of soft laughter and chatter fills the empty space, Connor’s smile begins to grow, yearning to touch his ears. It feels brighter and warmer than usual. But, then again, the holiday season has always had this effect on him. “There’s plenty of cookies and juice for everyone, so please help yourselves to as much as you’d like.”

They’re in the Community Center, getting ready for the weekly meeting. They’ve chosen not to call the center a  _church_  for a number of reasons, but mostly because its purpose is for so much more than just religious studies. It's become a sort of second home for everyone in the village, the epicenter of the community. It’s where everyone is welcome to gather, day or night, and where they hold all of their weddings and funerals and baptisms alike. It took them over six months to build, but the end result had been more than worth the wait.

Connor spots Elder Kevin Price from across the room, kneeling down in front of Dembe, his favorite student. He always claims not to have favorites, saying that 'all of the kids are his favorite', but Connor knows better. He can tell Dembe is his favorite by the way his eyes light up, big and dark and sparkling, whenever she looks at him.

“For me?” Kevin asks, referring to the flower Dembe had just pulled out from behind her ear. “Are you sure?”

She nods like her life depends on it, holding out the yellow daisy for him to take. “I picked it just for you, Elder Price.”

“You did? Well, in that case—;” he takes the flower and sticks it behind his ear, making the little girl break out into giggles. Kevin’s mouth curls up into the most beautiful smile, the genuine kind that he only affords to a very select few. “What? You don’t think it brings out my eyes?”

Before she has a chance to reply, however, he attacks her belly with tickles, making her bubble over with laughter. The sight makes Connor’s already-warm smile feel as hot at the sun.

“You know what?” Kevin says, as he ceases his merciless tickling. He plucks the flower from his hair and tucks it back behind her ear. “I think this flower looks a whole lot prettier on you.” He pokes her in the belly. “You keep it, okay?”

The little girl nods, and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

“Elder McKinley?”

Connor hears someone calling out from behind him, but it sounds faint and very far away, like the distant murmur of a neighbor’s television.

“Yoo-hoo? Elder McKinley?”

There it is again, only louder and more insistent this time, but Dembe is in Kevin’s arms now, getting tossed up into the air. She shrieks with happiness, making it impossible for Connor to recognize something as ordinary and commonplace as his own  _name_.

“ _Elder McKinley_?”

A rough tap on his shoulder knocks him out of his funk. He whips around to find the perpetrator is one of his own Elders. 

“What is it, Elder Davis?”

The Elder looks confused. “It’s ten after six.”

Connor looks up at the clock that sits above the podium. “You’re absolutely right, Elder Davis. It is indeed ten after six.”

Davis’s eyebrows knit together. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright, Elder McKinley? You seem a little, um—”

“A little what?” Connor challenges him. He doesn't mean for the words to come out sounding as terse and sharp as they do, but he’s always been rather defensive, especially when it comes to Elder Davis. When Connor had finally come fully out the closet only six months ago, he could tell it made both Elder Michaels and Elder Davis a little uncomfortable. He thought it would pass and eventually, it did—for Michaels, anyway. Elder Davis still seems uncomfortable around him and still gives Connor this disparaging  _look_  every now and again.

“You just seem a little out of it, that's all.”

“Well, I'm not. I’m perfectly fine,” Connor says, even though he isn’t. Well, he is, but he isn’t. It’s all very confusing. “Now, go take your seat. We’re already ten minutes behind schedule.”

Still looking rather confused, Elder Davis obeys and takes a seat in the front row, next to Sadaka and Elder Michaels. Connor takes the podium and taps the microphone a few times, signaling to Kevin that he should probably put Dembe down and make his way to the front. Secretly, he wishes he didn’t need to interrupt their little moment, but they have important business to attend to—important business like the village’s first celebration of Christmas—or  _Sekukkulu,_ in Swahili.

After a brief introduction to tonight’s services, Connor steps down and lets Elder Price and Elder Cunningham take center stage, per usual. The pair of ex-missionaries have sort of become the chief ambassadors of their little ragtag group—mission, Church, whatever they are now—though Connor has yet to relinquish his hold on the District Leader title. They’d have to pry that one from his cold, dead hands.

“Hi, everyone,” Kevin says into the mic, and his smile lights up the room. It always does. “We’re here tonight to talk about a very important holiday to all of us Latter-Day Saints. It’s a holiday we call  _Christmas_  and you call  _Sekukkulu_ and it’s coming up in only  _two_  short weeks. It also happens to be  _my_ favorite holiday out of the whole ye—”

“Mine too!” Arnold interrupts, and grabs the mic right out of Kevin’s hands. “I mean, what’s not to love, right?”

“Arnold—”

“There’s snow and cookies and candy canes and Christmas trees and Santa and reindeer and you get lots and lots of  _presents_ —“

“ _Arnold!_ ” Kevin yanks the mic back rather gruffly, to which Arnold looks mildly affronted. The two of them proceed to bicker for a solid minute, Kevin’s hand cupped snugly over the microphone. This same interaction happens nearly every week, like clockwork. It never fails to make Connor smile.

“Sorry about that, folks." Kevin puts on a false smile and clears his throat. “Now, as I was saying, Christmas is a very special time of year for all of us. It’s a time for reflection and giving and showing love and appreciation to our fellow—“

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Elder Khali calls out from the back of the room. Everyone turns to look at him. “What the  _fuck_  is a reindeer?”

Kevin looks caught off guard. “Well, um—”

Similar questions get posed shortly after and pretty soon the whole room is buzzing with questions and confusion.

“Look, you don’t need to worry about  _reindeer_ right now, okay? We’ll explain all of that to you later,” Kevin says, and clears his throat again. “Now, as I was saying, Christmas—or  _Sekukkulu_ , as you call it here in Uganda—is a very special time of year. It’s when we get to spend quality time with our family and friends, eat lots of good food, and exchange gifts with one another. Has anybody here ever celebrated Christmas before? Raise your hands if you have.”

Kevin and Arnold raise their hands, as do all of the Elders. Only a handful of villagers raise theirs. Dembe’s family isn’t one of them.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, Connor wakes up in the middle of the night, skin drenched in a thin layer of sweat, heart thumping out his chest. He flops back onto his pillow with a sigh. Another bad dream. Not quite a Hell dream, per se, but most definitely a nightmare. He mutters a curse as he sits up in bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He yawns rather loudly and takes a glance over at his alarm clock—two o’clock in the morning. Why is it always two o’clock in the morning?

He tries to fall back asleep, but his brain just won’t turn off. He’s worried about Kevin, whether he wants to admit it to himself or not. The poor boy has been working himself to death over the past few days, trying to make sure that this year’s celebration of  _Sekukkulu_ would be the best the village has ever seen. For many of the villagers, it will be their first. It’s been hard work, sure, what with explaining all of the various Christmas traditions to the villagers and making sure they had all of the supplies they’d need for three or four days of non-stop celebrating, but Kevin seemed to have been enjoying himself—up until today.

Earlier this afternoon, Kevin had come home distraught and, in typical Kevin fashion, wouldn’t talk about it with anyone. Instead, he just stormed off into his and Arnold’s shared room, slammed the door, and refused to come out for the remainder of the day. He wouldn’t even come out for dinner, despite the fact that Arnold had baked chocolate-chip cookies for dessert. And if there’s anything Connor McKinley knows to be true about Kevin Price, it's that the man _loves_  chocolate-chip cookies.

Groggy, and in need of a hot cup of tea to soothe his nerves, he gets up and pads through the dimly-lit house, heading for the kitchen. He stops in his tracks, however, when he spots Kevin sitting alone in the darkened living room, curled up on the couch with a cup of coffee in his hands. There's a thin sliver of moonlight hitting the top of Kevin's hair and Connor thinks he looks almost like a painting.

“Elder Price," Connor says, as he strolls lazily into the living room. “Why am I not surprised?”

Kevin doesn’t answer him, doesn’t even look up in his direction, but after the silence goes on a bit too long, Connor starts feeling  _worried_ again and all that. “What's the matter? Couldn’t sleep?” 

Kevin just shrugs and takes a sip of coffee. “What does it look like?”

Connor shrugs back. “Like you’re having a pity party and forgot to invite me?”

Kevin almost smiles— _almost_ , but ends up holding his ground. He’s stubborn like that.

“Care to tell me what’s been bothering you?” Connor asks, knowing that Kevin will eventually tell. He’s always more open to talking about his feelings when it’s two o’clock in the morning. He ventures over to the couch and takes a seat across from Kevin, curling his knees to his chest. He deliberately sits close enough so that their feet are almost touching. “I’m a pretty good listener, you know.”

A soft snort escapes Kevin's nose. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Connor says. “It comes with the whole gay thing. Being in touch with my feminine side and all that.”

That makes Kevin’s lip twitch up ever so slightly. “Does it really?”

“No,” he admits, and gives one of Kevin’s feet a little kick. “I'm just trying to get you to smile.” Their eyes lock for a moment and Connor looks for any hint of a smile. He finds one, but it's very, very small. “Looks like it might've worked. Almost.”

“Almost.” Kevin’s almost-smile is still quite beautiful in its own right and it stays there for the briefest moment before collapsing in on itself. His gaze retreats back to his coffee. “It’s about Dembe.”

An icy chill prickles over Connor’s skin. “What about Dembe?”

“She stayed after school today, to help me finish the decorations." Kevin's eyes glint in that way they do sometimes, whenever he's feeling guilty about something. “And I was just trying to make conversation or something, so I asked her what she wanted from Santa Claus this year.”

“Ah,” Connor says, upon realizing exactly how this story is about to go. “What did she say?”

“That Santa Claus doesn’t come to Kitguli.” Kevin bites down hard on his lip, and sighs. “That her mom told her that the village is just too far out of the way for him to make the trip.” He’s quiet for a moment and Connor notices how the glint in his eyes starts to shimmer just a little. “And she told me that it’s not just her. Almost none of the kids in Kitguli get presents on Christmas morning.”

Both the story, and the look on Kevin’s face, break Connor’s heart a little. 

“I see,” he says, and scoots a little bit closer to the other boy, so that their legs bump together. “I’m so sorry, Kevin.” He cups a hand over one of Kevin’s knees and squeezes. “I know how much you care about Dembe.”

“She’s never even gotten a  _Christmas present_ , Connor.” He says the words as though he’s still in utter disbelief over the fact. “She’s never woken up on Christmas morning with that _feeling_ in her chest, that feeling you get when you’re about to run down the stairs before anyone else wakes up and find boxes and boxes of Christmas presents under the tree. Can you believe she’s never—she’s never  _had_  that?”

“Yes,” Connor says, because it’s the truth. It’s no secret that Dembe’s family is one of the poorest in the village. “I can.”

Kevin scoffs, shaking his head. “How can you _say_  that?”

“Because things are  _different_  here, Kevin,” Connor gently reminds him. “You can’t expect Dembe to have the exact same upbringing you did. You were raised  _Mormon_ , Kevin. In  _Utah_. In America. In a house, with actual walls and a fireplace and a golden retriever. She’s growing up  _here,_  in Uganda—in a mud hut with not enough food and no hot water.”

“No, I know. I know all of that. I’m not an idiot,” Kevin sighs, and brings his knees up to his chin. “But Dembe still deserves to have a nice Christmas too, doesn’t she? All of the children do. They all deserve to wake up on Christmas morning feeling happy and excited and _thrilled_.”

“And they  _will."_ He takes Kevin's hand into his own and  _squeezes_  it. “They’re going to remember this Christmas forever, Kevin, and that’s all thanks to  _you_.” He bops him on the nose, to try and make him feel a little better, to try and get him to smile, but he doesn’t. He just bats Connor’s hand away.

“It’s not enough,” Kevin says, frustrated. “I need to do  _more_. I need to do _so_ much more.”

“You’ve done plenty already,” Connor tries to assure him, even though it's futile. “You’ve been working yourself ragged for days now. You need to get some rest. You won’t be any use to these people if you start passing out from sleep deprivation.”

Kevin doesn’t argue, but Connor can see his mind is still reeling, formulating ideas and plans. They sit for a while like that in the still quiet of the room, taking in the sound of Arnold’s distant snoring (the walls are paper thin) and of the crickets chirping from outside the window. Connor’s hand finds its way into Kevin’s again, tangling their fingers together and letting it send tingles over his skin. He even doesn't try to stop it, despite the voice in the back of his mind yelling at him to do so. Their bodies move closer together without discussion and Connor rests his head atop Kevin’s chest. He feels the way the other boy stiffens for a just moment at the touch, but eventually relaxes into it. He always does. They’ve done this a few times before, always at two o’clock in the morning. They never talk about it the next day. They probably should, but they don't.

It’s Kevin who breaks the silence first. “Do you know what  _Dembe_  means in Swahili?” 

“No, I don’t,” Connor says into Kevin’s chest. He lifts up his head so he can look him in the eyes. “But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“Peace,” Kevin says, in a soft voice. “Dembe means peace in Swahili.” A small smile grows on his face as he says the name. It's pretty and rolls easily off the tongue.

“It’s a beautiful name,” Connor says. “For a beautiful little girl.” 

“They say whoever gets blessed with the name  _Dembe_  will live a long and joyous life.” 

“And you’re going to make it your personal mission to make sure that happens, aren’t you?” Connor says, and lets out a tired sigh. If there’s ever been a truth uttered about Elder Kevin Price, it’s that once he’s made up his mind about something, there’s no turning back. He’s nothing, if not determined.

“Her mother has AIDS,” Kevin says, softly, and the heartbreaking words send a shiver down Connor's spine. “They don’t know how much longer she has left.”

“Oh, wow." He swallows hard, not entirely sure what to say. “That’s awful.” He pauses a moment. “How about her dad?”

“Gone,” Kevin says. “He died when she was two.”

They’re quiet for a little while longer, Connor’s head resting atop Kevin’s chest, hands intertwined beneath the throw blanket.

“It’s not fair,” Kevin says through a sniffle, his words breaking up a bit. “That I had so much growing up and she has so little. She deserves so much more than this, Connor—and I didn’t deserve even  _half_  of what I had. Not even  _half_.”

“Go to sleep, Kevin,” Connor whispers into his chest, and gives his hand another squeeze. “You can save the world tomorrow.”

And Connor has no doubt in his mind that he will. That, or he’ll die trying.

 

* * *

 

The next few days are spent at the Center, putting the finishing touches on the big celebration. Since it never really drops below seventy degrees in Uganda, they decide to hold their big Christmas bash outdoors. Michaels and Davis have been tasked with nailing down the makeshift dance floor and setting out tables and chairs. Arnold is in charge of the bar (Connor  _still_ can’t believe they drink alcohol now—his mother would have his head if she ever found out). Kevin is showing the children how to put up twinkling lights on the surrounding trees, keeping them occupied while the adults work. Church and Pop-tarts help the villagers cook  _luwombo_ —a traditional  _Sekukkulu_  meal made with plantains and chicken. It smells delicious from every corner of the village and Connor gets to oversee it all, even if it is Kevin’s baby. Because even after all this time, he still can’t seem to shake the district leader out of himself, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how hard  _Kevin_  tries.

 _You don’t need to feel responsible for everything all the time, you know,_  Kevin tells him every now and again, hand resting on the back of his shoulder, whenever Connor finds himself stressed out about something or other. The touch makes his skin tingle.  _You’re not **really**  the district leader anymore_, he says;  _let someone else worry for a change_.

 _You’re one to talk_ , Connor typically rebuts, and Kevin is forced to agree.

Secretly though, Connor rather likes worrying—in a terrible, self-loathing, masochistic kind of a way. Not that he’d ever admit that to Kevin, or anyone else for that matter, but it makes him feel as though he’s  _doing_ something, at least. Like his role around here actually matters a little, like he stayed here for a  _reason—_ even if that reason is just to run around, cleaning up after seven messy, hormonal boys, aged nineteen to twenty, and keeping a modest amount of food on the table. Even if that’s the  _only_  thing he manages to accomplish here, then at least he’ll feel he’s done  _something_. They  _need_  him here—the Elders need him. They’d be lost with him. At least, that’s what he tells himself every now and again, whenever he starts feeling useless and all that.

“Be careful with those,” Kevin says, and picks up the string of lights Dembe just dropped to the ground. “You might step on them.”

Dembe looks sheepish. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Try holding them like this." He wraps the string of Christmas lights around her forearm. Looking pleased at this, she happily follows Kevin around a sparse  _drumstick tree_  near the dance floor as he strings it up with lights; perfectly, and with great precision.

“So, um—“, Kevin starts, and Connor knows he’s about to say something stupid by the way he clears his throat a million times; “so, let’s say on the off-chance Santa  _does_  come to Kitguli—“

Connor freezes in his tracks, just as he’s about to go yell at Church for putting too much spice in the  _luwombo_.

“—what do you think you’d ask him for?”

Connor wants to intervene, even if it's just to slap him and ask him what the Hell kind of cockamamie plan he's cooking up, but he refrains. Mostly out of curiosity, but also because the question makes Dembe’s smile light up brighter than a Christmas tree. Idiot or not, he sure does know the way to Dembe’s heart, and that must count for something,

She thinks long and hard for a moment, squinting her eyes up at the sun and placing a finger to her lips. “I know!" She shouts, jumping up and down a little. "A unicorn!”

“Oh, um, okay, but I was thinking more along the lines of something that actually  _exists_ ,” Kevin says, not without a smirk; “you know, in  _reality_. Try again.”

She thinks on it for a little longer before coming up with something only slightly less impossible. “How about a pony? Ponies exist in—in—”

“—reality,” he finishes for her.

“What is  _reality_?”

“Oh, well, reality is, um—it’s all the stuff that exists right here on Earth, right now. Unicorns are make believe and I haven’t seen any  _ponies_  running around here lately. How about something else? Maybe something a little less…exotic.”

“Okay,” she says, and taps at her chin again. It is, apparently, a very hard decision to make. “What about a giraffe? They are  _reality_. I just saw one down by the river  _two_  days ago.”

“Oh, um,” he stammers; “sure, but how about something a little less,” he thinks for a moment, as though trying to phrase his next few words delicately. “How about something a little  _smaller_ than a giraffe. Something that could fit inside your house… preferably underneath a Christmas tree.”

_Oh, Kevin._

"Hmmm," she hums, and places a finger back to her chin. “Oh, I know! I got it!" 

Kevin's eyes light up. "Great! What is it?"

"A snake!" She shouts, as though the idea is something fantastic. "I just saw one of  _those_  down by the river too!”

Kevin closes his eyes and sighs. “Okay, how about something that  _isn’t_  an animal?” He looks tired now and more and more like he’s regretting ever starting this conversation. “Santa doesn’t really do animals anymore, you know? They get  _really_  cranky when he tries to shove them into the sack.”

Connor snorts at the comment— _way_  louder than intended. Kevin looks up at him for just a second before turning back down to Dembe. He lowers his voice just a tad, probably to try and stop Connor from overhearing whatever it is he’s saying. Little does he know, Connor has always had quite magnificent hearing. He still creeps a little closer to the pair, anyway—you know, just in case.

“I want you to try and think of something you  _really_ want,” Kevin says to her, looking way too serious about the whole Santa thing for Connor’s liking. “Something you’ve wanted for a  _really_  long time, but just couldn’t have. But it has to be something, um,  _smaller_ and—and  _less alive_  than a giraffe. Or a pony. Or a unicorn. Or a snake.”

The little girl thinks for a little while longer. She thinks and thinks and  _thinks_ , until her face turns sad.

“Dembe,” Kevin says, once he realizes she still hasn’t answered his question and her eyes no longer sparkled. When he sets down the string of lights and lifts her chin, so he can get a good look at her face, his eyebrows knit together in worry. “What is it?”

She bites down on her lip and shakes her head over and over, almost as if she feels too shy or too scared to tell Kevin what it is she really wants for Christmas.

“You can tell me,” he assures her, his voice going soft. “Would you rather whisper it in my ear? That way nobody else has to know.”

The moment she nods, he seems to forget about the string of lights altogether and kneels down in front of her. When she leans in and whispers whatever it is into Kevin’s ear, his face falls so far down to the ground that Connor’s surprised it’s still attached to him at all. He looks positively stricken, windblown— _crushed_. A surge of something strong bolts through Connor and he’s overcome with the urge to run over there and pull them both into a hug.

But, he doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. He can’t let on that he’s been eavesdropping—or that he cares so much. Besides, he isn’t sure how welcome he’d be.

“I don’t think Santa Claus can do that, sweetheart.” Kevin’s words come out sounding cracked and broken, the stars that had been making his eyes twinkle just moments ago, all but burned out. The little girl nods politely, as though she had been expecting that answer.

It makes Connor’s insides hurt and he instinctively moves his hand up over his heart, a feeble attempt to clutch onto it, to try and soothe it. He has a fairly good idea as to what the little girl had just asked Santa for and why it wouldn’t ever be possible to grant her wish. At least, not in  _reality_.

“But I’ll tell you something Santa  _might_  be able to do,” Kevin continues, taking a moment to let the tiniest of smiles break through the sadness. “Assuming he comes this way and all. He might not. It’s just a theory at this point.”

Connor shakes his head. Kevin has never been very good at the whole _subtle_  thing. Or the nonchalant thing. Or the lying thing. He may be able to lie to _other_  people rather well, to the people who don’t really know or care about him—people like Davis and Michaels and even his own family—but Connor can see right through him. He's just as transparent as the netting that covers their little outdoor party space. That, or Connor is just very observant. Maybe it's a little bit of both.

Theoretical or not, Dembe’s eyes light up at the mention of Santa. “What? What can he do?”

“Well, I have it on pretty good authority that Santa’s elves make a _lot_  of toys,” Kevin says. “In fact, they make  _so_ many toys that I hear they might even have a  _surplus_ this year.”

“What is a sur—surplus?” She pronounces the new word incorrectly, only making it that much sweeter. It makes Kevin smile.

“A  _surplus_  is when you have too much of something,” he explains and rests his hands on either side of her waist. “And a little birdie told me that Santa’s elves might even have a surplus of  _dolls_ this year. Would you like Santa to bring you a doll?” He holds up a hand to correct himself. “I mean, assuming that this whole  _surplus_  thing isn’t just some kind of runaway rumor or—or some kind of  _marketing_  ploy.”

Connor closes his eyes and sighs.  _Jesus Christ_.

“I mean, there might not even _be_  a surplus, for all we know,” Kevin says, clearly trying not to get her hopes up too high or make promises he'll never be able to keep. “I’m just...theorizing.” He pauses a moment and takes in a deep breath. “So, in  _theory_ … would you like Santa to bring you a doll for Christmas?”

An ecstatic grin blooms on the girl’s face and she nods in a way Connor has never seen before, as though she’s already forgotten whatever it was that had made her so sad just moments before.

“Good, but remember," Kevin holds up a finger; “don’t get your hopes up  _too_  high, okay? We don’t know anything for sure yet. At this point, it’s just a rumor and rumors aren’t always true. I mean, just take a look at Elder Cunningham over there;” he nods towards Arnold, who’s too busy counting the cans of beer lining the bar to notice. “Rumor has it he’s a  _prophet_.” Kevin makes a disbelieving face, all scrunchy and silly, and shakes his head. It makes Dembe _laugh_ , and Dembe’s laugh always makes Kevin’s smile reach his ears. “Now, what do you say we get back to work, huh? These lights aren’t going to hang themselves.”

“Okay, Elder Price,” she says, and hands him back the string of lights so they can finish decorating the tree.

 

* * *

 

By the time Christmas Eve arrives, Connor knows for a  _fact_  that Kevin is up to something.

"You’re up to something,” he says as he takes another sip of beer. “I know it. I can see it in your eyes.”

Kevin rolls his, and takes a sip of his coffee. “I am not.”

“Are too.” Connor squints his eyes a little, as he tries to sort out exactly what it is that Kevin Price is up to, but he’s had a few too many beers at this point and it’s only eight o’clock, so he can’t quite put the pieces together. He knows it has something to do with Dembe—of that much, he’s practically certain. “I can always tell when you’re up to something." He points at Kevin and stumbles back just a little. "You get this  _look_  in your eyes.”

“I do not have a  _look_  in my eyes." But even as Kevin says the words, the lie is written all over his face. His nose is doing the twitchy thing again and he’s fiddling far too much with his hands, cracking his knuckles and wringing them out whenever he sets his coffee down. The sound drives Connor mad, but he tries to ignore it. 

“Yes, you do. It’s right there. I can see it. I can even—,” Connor reaches up and brushes a finger over one of Kevin's eyelids; “ _touch it_.”

“No, you can’t.” Kevin swats Connor's hand away, trying to hide a smile, his cheeks turning to apples. “And even if you could, it doesn’t matter because I am  _not_  up to something.”

“Yes, you are," Connor insists, then hiccups. He's definitely had too many beers and too many beers make for a bad investigation. “You’re up to something and you don’t want me to know what it is.”

“For the last time, I am not up to something.” Kevin takes another sip of coffee. “You’re just letting your imagination run wild.”

“Oh, am I?” Connor laughs, and gets right up in Kevin’s face. “So, it was just my _imagination_  that you went mysteriously AWOL for three days straight, leaving the house at six in the morning and not coming back until midnight, without telling anyone where you were going? You think I just  _imagined_  all that?”

“Clearly, you did,” Kevin says, and takes another sip. “Because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Connor scoffs. It would appear as though Kevin Price is a better liar than he’d originally thought. “Okay, fine. Then how about all of the weird  _things_  you've been bringing home and not showing anybody, huh? Arnold tells me you’ve been hoarding stuff under your bed and that when he tried to take a peek, you nearly tackled him to the ground.”

“I don’t have to answer these questions,” Kevin says, and turns on his heels. “I’m not on trial."

Connor proceeds to follow him around for a while after that—and around and around and around, Kevin trying to swat him away like a fly that won’t stop buzzing. They walk around the dance floor and over by the Christmas tree, then past Arnold, who has a beer in one hand and Nabulungi in the other.

“You’re not drinking,” Connor observes, curiously, when Kevin finally gets sick of evading him and leans up against the side of the bar. “Why aren’t you drinking?”

“Because unlike you,  _I_ don’t need to drink to have a good time.” He gives Connor a haughty smile, and downs a bit more coffee.

“Says the man who drank up all of the alcohol at Arnold’s twentieth birthday party, despite touting that you  _weren't going to over do it this time_ and then ended up passed out drunk on the floor next to my  _bed_ , mumbling the  _weirdest_  things.” Connor likes the way the memory makes Kevin blush a little. “The man who was  _so_  hungover the next day that he didn’t even get out of bed until nearly five in the afternoon and when he did, threw up all over my new couch pillows.”

“That was a one time incident.”

“Oh, I can think of at _least_  five more,” Connor snorts, and takes another sip of beer. “Wait, no, seven or eight at least.”

“Oh, you  _cannot_.”

Connor leans into his face. “Try me.”

“No thanks.”

Connor watches him for a little while longer—watching as Kevin compulsively drinks his coffee, cracks his knuckles, and obsessively checks his watch. He seems anxious and impatient for something, like he's just waiting for the party to end so he can get on with something else. 

"Oh, I get it," Connor eventually says, a knowing smile creeping onto his face. "You're not drinking because you need to be _awake_  for something later. You need to be on your  _game_. That’s why you’re drinking  _coffee_  and not-,” he taps his can of beer, and hiccups again; "this stuff."

“I always drink coffee,” Kevin says, and takes another sip to prove his point.

“Not at parties, you don't,” Connor steps closer, peering into Kevin’s eyes as though trying to find something. “And it’s after eight o’clock. You  _never_  drink coffee after eight o’clock. Not unless you're sitting on the couch brooding in the middle of the night. But eight o'clock at a  _party_? Never.”

Kevin makes a face as he slowly brings the cup down from his lips. “Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?”

“No,” Connor says, leaning in even closer. “You just forget how well I know you." He pokes him hard in the chest. "I can always tell when you’re up to something.”

“Look, will you please just get off my back?” Kevin huffs. “I am  _not_  up to something and even if I was, I wouldn’t tell you, alright?”

He tries to move away, but Connor just pulls him back. Kevin looks annoyed at first and struggles against Connor's grip, to try and get him to let go, but Connor is freakishly strong and it doesn’t work. Instead of freeing his arm, Connor keeps his grip on Kevin while dramatically tossing his nearly-full can of beer into the trash, staring straight into Kevin's eyes as he does so. He's always had a flair for the dramatic.

Kevin’s eyes go wide. Beer is expensive around here and not that easy to come by. “What did you just do?”

“What does it look like?”

“Like you just wasted a perfectly good beer?”

“If you’re not going to drink, then neither am I.”

Kevin sighs. “Connor—“

“You,” he says, and pokes Kevin in the chest; “are about to do something _incredibly_ stupid and probably dangerous, which means I have to sober up, and fast.”

“Why?”

“So I can talk you out of doing something  _incredibly_ stupid and probably dangerous, why else?”

Kevin almost smiles at that— _almost_ —because Connor knows  _exactly_  how to make him smile. He’s gotten quite good at it over the past eight months. And it would seem as though, no matter how morose or broody Kevin can sometimes get, Connor always finds a way to break through the darkness, to get Kevin to smile, to laugh at himself. Other people can’t seem to get away it, with picking on him like this, with pushing his buttons. Well, okay, except for Arnold. Arnold can get away with pretty much anything, as far as Kevin's concerned, but when Arnold does it, it feels much more innocent, more accidental. When Connor does it, he’s trying deliberately to take Kevin down a peg or two, to bait him, to make him crack. And Kevin doesn’t let anyone else do that, except for Connor. He isn’t exactly sure why that is, but he has a couple of guesses. It’s just another one of those things they don’t really talk about.

“You are _so_  crazy sometimes,” Kevin says, in a tone that lets Connor know exactly how much he admires it. "Really. You're certifiable."

“I’m watching you, Price,” Connor warns, finger pointed in Kevin's face, before stumbling back into their makeshift DJ booth.

 

* * *

 

Connor doesn’t sleep, despite the fact that he’s slightly hungover. Instead, he stands by the door in the living room and waits for Kevin to do something stupid. Finally, at about two o’clock in the morning, he does. Everything always seems to happen at two o'clock in the morning.

Connor can see the form of one of his Elders making his way down the hall, walking as slowly and as carefully as possible, deliberately trying to avoid making any amount of noise. He watches the man take small, delicate footsteps, muttering a curse under his breath every time the floorboards creak, even if only a little. Connor stays hidden near the door, trying not to laugh, as he waits patiently for the right moment to make his kill.

When the moment finally arrives, and the hand Connor assumes to be Kevin's goes for the doorknob, Connor places a hand on his shoulder and says: “Going somewhere?”

The Elder jumps back with a wickedly high-pitched scream, but it’s quickly muffled by Connor's hand covering his mouth. As he steps into the light, where a moonbeam shines in through the window, and Kevin can see who he is, Connor gives him a triumphant smirk and slowly lifts his hand from Kevin’s mouth.

“You have _got_  to be kidding me.” Kevin sighs, dropping something large and heavy to the floor. It looks kind of like a large bag, but it’s too dark in the living room for Connor to clearly make out what it is. “You're crazy, you know that? You’ve gone completely insane. Have you even slept at all?"

“What's this?” Connor ignores the question and makes a grab for the bag sitting on the floor, the one Kevin is trying desperately to hide behind his legs.

“None of your business,” Kevin says, and tries to stuff it back behind him. “Now can you please stop following me around and go back to sleep? This is seriously getting creepy.”

“What’s in the bag, Kevin?”

He sighs. “ _Nothing_  is in the bag.”

“Hmmm,” Connor says, and forces the bag from Kevin’s hand with an amount of strength not many people know about. “Feels awfully heavy for  _nothing_.”

“Give that back to me,” Kevin hisses and grabs it back. He looks like a small child who's just been caught stealing a piece of candy.

“Kevin.” Connor expels a tired sigh. The boy really is oblivious, isn't he? “Did it ever occur to you that maybe if you tell me what’s going on, I might be able to  _help_  you?”

“No. You’ll just try to talk me out of it, but it’s not going to work, not this time,” Kevin says, and Connor can see the determination in his eyes. “I’m  _doing_ this, Connor.”

“I never had any doubt." He gives Kevin a small smile. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s in the bag or not? Because I’m mildly hungover and need to get my beauty sleep.”

The other man thinks about it for a moment before reluctantly opening up the bag. When Connor peers inside of it, he feels an unfamiliar sensation pass through him. It feels like a kind of warmth, washing over his chest before traveling down to his belly, where it transforms into butterflies. Sitting in the bag are twenty or thirty gift boxes, all hand-wrapped and labelled with the names of the village children. Connor shakes his head a few times as he stares down into the bag. Not out of disappointment or anger, but out of sheer disbelief that someone—that  _Kevin—_ could do something this selfless, this altruistic.

“You’re planning to deliver these gifts to the children,” Connor states, as the details of Kevin’s plan are suddenly made clear. “Like Santa Claus.” He looks up from the bag to meet Kevin’s eyes. “You’re Kevin Claus.”

“I actually prefer  _Saint Kevin_ , but I guess it's all just semantics,” Kevin says with a shrug, making Connor's eyes roll. “Look, I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? I just wanted to do  _something_ , that’s all. And this is something.”

“This is something,” Connor says, in a way he hopes will let Kevin know how much he really does mean it. 

It’s very quiet and dark in the room and they’re both just standing there, staring at one another, blue melting into brown. The moonlight is hitting Kevin’s cheek at just the right angle, making his skin glow sort of silver. He looks unsure of himself, and maybe just a little bit nervous, as though fearful that Connor might judge him or scold him or reprimand him for what’s he’s about to do. But Connor doesn’t do any of those things.

He hands the bag back to Kevin, and sighs. “So, how did you—“

“I made some of them,” Kevin explains, shifting from one foot to the other. “And the ones I couldn’t make, I bought at the market.”

“I would’ve helped you, Kevin. Arnold would have, too. Everyone would've helped you.” The idea that Kevin had tried to shoulder this burden alone hurts him a little, but he tries not to show it. “All you had to do was ask.”

“I know that,” he says, and it actually sounds sincere. “But you always have so much going on and I didn’t want to worry you. I mean, you know, worry you anymore than you normally do." He gives Connor a shy shrug, and a half-smile. "I also didn't want you to think I was completely insane, so there's that, too.”

It’s a weak point, but Connor takes it. He does worry an awful lot and Kevin seems to worry  _about_  him worrying, so his reasoning sort of makes sense. But it also seems to Connor that the idea of bringing Christmas joy to the children of Kitguli is a very personal thing for Kevin. It's a task of which he has placed solely on himself and only himself, one that he feels he must shoulder alone, without help from anyone. He does this kind of thing a lot, Connor has noticed over the past few months. He does it over and over again, for reasons Connor still doesn’t understand. Maybe one day, he will—once they stop pretending as though these kinds of small moments, the kind spent alone together at two o’clock in the morning, don’t really mean anything.

“Well, if you’re going to be Santa,” Connor says, as he strolls over to the "fireplace" (a broken cabinet covered in red and green felt); “then you’re going to need—,” he takes one of the Santa hats off the top, turns back around, and flops it onto Kevin’s head; “—a hat.” He affords Kevin a warm smile, one he wishes could find itself pressed up against Kevin’s, but that sort of wish really would take a Christmas miracle, wouldn’t it?

“I was going to try and do this  _without_  dressing up,” Kevin says, chuckling as he adjusts the hat on his head—it looks quite nice on him, too; “but I suppose I might as well look the part, huh?”

“Oh, wait, I almost forgot! Stay right here,” Connor says, as he starts for his room, turning around mid-run just to say: “don't move, okay?”

“Where are you going?” 

Connor comes running back in with something very special in his arms, something he’s been planning to wear for the big party at the Center on Christmas Day: a handmade Christmas sweater of sorts, but instead of a sweater, it’s a blue tee shirt with glitter-covered paper cut-outs, shaped like Christmas trees and snowflakes.

“You can wear this,” Connor says with a smile, and shoves it into Kevin’s arms. The horrified look on Kevin's face as he holds up the shirt positively _delights_  him. “And I can wear this.” Connor reaches over to the “fireplace”, grabs another hat from the pile, and plops it on his head. "Ta-da!"

“No... no way, Connor. Uh-uh. I am _not_ wearing this thing,” says Kevin, as he tries unsuccessfully to thrust it back into Connor’s arms, but Connor is stronger than Kevin, so it doesn’t work. It never does. “It’s covered in  _glitter_ , okay? I don’t  _do_  glitter. I never have, not even when I was little and my mom used make me—,“ he stops short once he notices the Santa hat sitting atop Connor’s head. “Wait, why do you need a hat?”

“Because I’m going with you, silly.” Connor grins, and he knows it’s the evil kind. “You didn’t really think I’d let you go out there in the middle of the night  _alone,_  did you? I am still your district leader, you know. That means I’m technically still responsible for keeping you safe—and let me tell you, there are a  _lot_  of wild animals out there.”

“I know,” Kevin deadpans, as he holds the offending shirt out in front of him and makes a face. “Dembe asked for half of them for Christmas.” He crinkles his brow and looks up at Connor. “Do I really have to wear this?”

“Yes,” says Connor, without missing a beat. “So, how many children are there in Kitguli?”

“Thirty-one,” says Kevin, as he begins to swiftly unbutton his white dress shirt.  _Pop, pop, pop_ , until they all come off. Connor is mesmerized. “Not too bad, huh?”

“No.” Connor shakes his head, watching intently as Kevin’s shirt slowly slides off his arms and onto the floor. His throat runs dry. “Not bad at all."

A breath catches in his throat once Kevin’s arms move. He's entirely shirtless now and there’s just so much  _man skin_  in front of him— _Kevin’s_ man skin, the only man skin that matters—and his throat feels like it’s closing in on itself. Kevin's body is lightly tanned, even in his chest area where the sun doesn’t hit very often. He’s fit and toned, of course, but not  _too_ fit, and he’s muscular. Well, sort of. He's muscular, but not bulky. He’s  _perfect,_ Connor thinks. It's just too bad he can only  _look_ , but never  _touch_.

He doesn’t even realize he’s been staring—a gooey-ed and practically drooling mess—until Kevin catches Connor’s gaze and smirks. “Enjoying the view, McKinley?”

Connor’s cheeks start to burn.  _Oh, god_ , he thinks, and promptly turns away, shaking his head. “No. No, of course not. Don’t be stupid.”

“So, how do I look?” Kevin says, and twirls around in his new garb. He looks cute, if not a little silly. Connor smiles. “Good enough to be Santa Claus or what?”

“Absolutely,” Connor says, his confidence returning a bit as he picks up the giant sack; “if Santa Claus is poor as shit and shops in the bargain bin at Wal-Mart.”

Kevin scoffs. “This is literally your shirt. You made this shirt.”

“And it looks _lovely_ on you,” says Connor, as he pushes Kevin out the door.

 

* * *

 

They’re only on their fourth house of the night and have already hit a number of obstacles. They’ve awakened two sets of parents (thankfully though, not any of the children), have encountered several wild animals Connor has never seen before, and Kevin has tripped over more rocks and tree roots than Connor can count. It's dark outside, and scary, and they still have over twenty houses left to hit.

“Will you  _please_  stop doing that?” Connor sighs. They’re at house number five now and Kevin is cracking his knuckles as he stares at the door. “We’ve done four houses already. We’re practically pros at this.”

“This house is Dembe’s,” Kevin says quietly, and Connor understands the meaning behind the words.

“Ah.”

“Yeah,” Kevin says, then sighs. “I mean, what if she sees me, Connor?” He starts shifting his weight around again, going from one foot to the other, still compulsively assaulting his own knuckles. “Then she’ll know I was just making all that stuff up, that I’m full of crap. She’ll know that Santa—,” he pauses a second; “that Santa isn’t real, and that I lied to her.”

Connor grabs ahold of Kevin’s hands, both to stop the incessant  _cracking_ sound, but also to calm him down. He presses them together, squeezes them, and brings them to his chest. “Even if she does, I think she’ll understand.”

“She’s not even five years old. She isn’t going to understand any of this.”

Connor thinks for a moment, before answering. “I disagree,” he says, carefully. “I think she will understand.”

“How?”

“Because these kids don’t have a lot, Kevin,” Connor gently explains. “And I think they can tell how much you care about them, how much you want to help them. I can see it in Dembe’s eyes sometimes. She knows how you feel about her.”

Kevin's cheeks flush. “She does?”

Connor nods, and squeezes his hands again. “And I think that if she sees you like  _this_ ,” he runs a gentle hand down Kevin’s chest; “wearing this atrocity of a shirt—“

“It’s literally your shirt, but go on.”

Connor smiles, and does a click-y thing with his tongue. “If she sees you in this shirt, putting presents underneath her tree, wearing this silly Santa hat, with this,” he reaches up and grazes a finger along Kevin’s lips, making them open part-way; “ _smile_ , then I know she’ll feel happier and more content on Christmas morning than any other kid back at home. I know she will.” Kevin’s cheeks flush again and it’s no less adorable the second time than it was the first. He slowly lifts his finger off Kevin’s lips, once he realizes it’s still there, and clears his throat. “My point is: just get on with it, okay?”

Kevin nods and brings Connor to the back of Dembe’s hut. They get in through the back door, where the family keeps most of their food and supplies and whatnot. It looks dirty and cramped, even more so than the other four huts they've been to that night.

“Where’s the tree?” Connor whispers, as they step quietly through the house, careful not to make any sudden noises. All of the villagers had been shown the tradition of the  _Christmas tree_ during one of their meetings. Most of the villagers seemed happy to take part in the tradition, but Connor couldn't spot Dembe's tree anywhere in sight.

“I don’t know,” Kevin says, as he makes his way into what could only be loosely defined as a living room. Connor only realizes that Kevin isn’t walking anymore when he barrels right into his back. It’s dark in the hut and Connor can barely see anything.

“What is it?” Connor asks, and comes around to Kevin’s side. What he  _can_  see in front of him, through the very dim light of the moon creeping in, is perhaps the tiniest living space Connor has ever seen in his life. Dembe’s mother is asleep on something that sort of resembles a couch, her aunt and uncle are asleep on the floor, and Dembe is laying on the floor, wedged right between a table and large ceramic vase. Inside the vase sits a sparsely decorated tree branch, of which Connor can only assume is their Christmas tree. Kevin doesn’t move for a while, and Connor isn’t sure what to do.

“Are you okay?” Connor asks in a soft whisper, circling his arms around Kevin’s waist. It’s the closest they’ve ever been, but Connor thinks it’s probably okay, considering the circumstances. “Kevin?”

“Yeah,” Kevin whispers, and wipes at his eyes. “I’m fine.” Connor squeezes him tight and they spend a few moments like that, simply watching Dembe and her family sleeping peacefully in what can only be described as meager and intolerable living conditions. “Do you have the gifts?”

Connor nods and digs two boxes labeled  _To Dembe_ ,  _From Santa_  out of the bag. Hers are the only presents to come attached with an additional note taped onto the side. She's also the only child being afforded  _two_  gifts instead of one, even though Kevin Price claims not to have any  _favorites._

Kevin moves quietly into the living room and places Dembe’s two pristinely-wrapped gifts next to her, alongside the ceramic vase holding their "tree". The quiet shuffling of placing the gifts in the right spot must wake her up, however, because her eyelids suddenly pop open, revealing two big brown eyes.

She sleepily wipes at them before sitting up, looking confused. She yawns; it’s small and sleepy. “Santa?"

“No, it's just me,” Kevin says. "Elder Price." Connor can hear the disappointment in his voice. He really,  _really_ hadn’t wanted her to find out the truth, and now—

“Elder Price!” She shrieks in a loud whisper, face glowing with excitement.

“Shhh,” Kevin says, placing a finger to her lips. “We don’t want to wake anyone up.”

She nods and looks down at his Christmas shirt, her brow crinkling curiously. She reaches out with her tiny hands and touches the glitter-doused paper trees and snowflakes pasted to its front. “Are you Santa Claus, Elder Price?”

“No, sweetie.” Kevin laughs, softly. “I’m not Santa Claus. I’m just Kevin."

Connor thinks he's more than that, but he doesn't say anything. He doesn't want to ruin the moment.

The little girl nods as though she understands, eyeing the two gifts in his hands. “Are those for me, Elder Price?”

“Oh, um, yeah, they are.” He clutches them for a moment before placing them under the tree. “But you have to open them tomorrow, okay? On Christmas morning. It’s kind of a tradition to open them up on Christmas morning.”

She nods again before crawling up onto his lap, gripping at the back of his neck with her tiny hands. “Is Santa Claus coming too, Elder Price? Because of the—the  _surplus_?”

“Oh, um—no, I don’t think so, sweetie,” he says, and Connor hates the way his voice cracks just a little as he says the words. He walks up behind Kevin and places a hand to the back of his shoulder, squeezing it a few times, just in case it’s enough to ease the pain. “I think it’s just gonna be me this year." Kevin gives Dembe a weak smile. "I hope that’s okay.”

“That is okay, Elder Price.” She eyes Connor, standing behind Kevin with a hand on his shoulder, and points to the giant bag of gifts sitting beside him. “What is in there?"

Kevin pauses a moment and looks behind him at the bag. “Oh, those are, um—those are gifts for all the other kids in the village. But between you and me, you’re the only one who got two.” A great big grin appears on her face at this new information. “But don’t tell the others that, okay? It has to be our little secret.”

“Our little secret,” she concurs, and kisses Kevin’s cheek.

“And if any of the other kids ask,” he goes on; “could you just...let them think that Santa was the one who brought them all these gifts? Instead of Elder Price?”

She nods again, and grips harder at the back of Kevin’s neck, silently begging him for a hug. He complies and pulls her into an embrace.

“Merry Christmas, Dembe,” he says, face pressed into her messy dark curls.

"Merry Christmas, Elder Price."

 

* * *

 

“Well, that was certainly an  _emotional_  journey,” Connor says, as they trudge back to the mission hut. “Not to mention exhausting and dangerous and…  _dirty_.” He looks down at what used to be his white shirt, now covered in scraps of mud and dirt and who knows what else. They had to outrun a boar— _twice_ , several of the huts seemed to have hidden  _booby traps_  inside of them, and they both fell into the mud so many times that Connor had lost count.

“Thanks for coming with me,” Kevin says, reaching out to take Connor’s hand. “I probably couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I’m sure you would’ve been just fine without me." Connor waves him off, but his eyes are glued to their entwined hands. He expects that Kevin will let go of his hand any moment now, but he doesn't, and they’re still walking, hand-in-hand. “But it was no trouble. Happy to do this for the kids.”

“For the kids?” Kevin asks, in a tone of surprise. Connor looks up from their hands to find a knowing smirk glued to that stupid face he loves so much. Kevin gives their locked hands a squeeze, and Connor’s heart does a  _thing_. “Are you sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Flustered, Connor rips his hand away from Kevin’s and smoothes it out over his pants. “Why else would I go along with this ridiculous scheme of yours?”

"I don’t know." Kevin shrugs, looking suddenly unsure of himself. “For a moment there, I almost thought that maybe you, um—,“ he pauses a second, and wipes his brow. “Actually, you know what, nevermind. It’s stupid.”

Connor stops in his tracks and grabs the back of Kevin’s shoulder, whipping him around. “Thought what?”

“Connor—“

“What did you think?”

“I just thought that maybe you might... I don't know, that you might, um, like me, or—or something.” Kevin’s cheeks are burning beet red now, and Connor can tell he's about to go for the knuckles again. He looked positively adorable like this, especially since he’s still wearing Connor’s utterly ridiculous  _glitter shirt_ (albeit, not so glittery now that it's totally covered in dirt). Connor must have some  _look_ on his face, though, because Kevin just steps back and stammers: “I guess I was wrong. I'm sorry for even suggesting—”

“Did you want to be right?” Connor asks, and he has no idea where this bravery is coming from all of a sudden, but if there is even a  _smidgen_  of a chance that Kevin actually wants this too, then Connor needs to  _take it_. He needs to grab it and latch onto it and never let it go. “Answer me. Did you want to be right or not?”

Kevin sighs. “What do you think?" 

"I don't know what to think," Connor says, honestly, and falters a little. "I'm not very good at this, am I?"

Kevin smiles at him rather fondly, and brushes a stray piece of hair out of his eyes. "Why do you think I’m always hanging out with you, huh? Or why do you think we always end up on the couch together in the middle of the night?” He pauses a moment, to let Connor answer, but the words just won’t come out. “Or how come whenever we drink, I always end up passed out next to your bed? Here’s a hint: it isn’t because I enjoy the way Poptarts steps on my face the next morning.” He grins, and lets the back of his hand graze Connor’s cheek. “Or how about whenever you have laundry duty or cooking duty or _any_ duty, I always come offer to help, even when it's not my turn? Why do you think that is, huh?”

Connor opens his mouth and shuts it a few times, flustered. “I don’t—I don’t know.”

“Well, it sure as heck isn't because of your charming personality, I'll give you that much.” He laughs a little at his own joke and gives Connor a playful shove, as though it should have been obvious from the start. In his bewildered state, it’s enough for him to fall back on his heels a little.

“I happen to have a very charming personality,” is apparently all he can come back with. It’s weak, but his knees have turned to Jell-o and he can’t really think straight anymore.

“And it certainly isn’t for your  _art skills_ ,” Kevin adds, smirking as he looks down at his shirt. “I mean really, Connor, this is atrocious.”

Connor laughs, even though he feels as though he might cry. “It is atrocious, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

“But you wore it, anyway,” he says, a tear rolling down his cheeks. He wipes it away as fast as possible.

“I did.” Kevin smiles again, and takes Connor’s hand back, linking them together. And the smile on Kevin’s face is the special, genuine kind of smile—the one reserved for a very select few. “And it isn’t just because you and Arnold are the only ones left who don’t hate me.”

“That isn’t true,” Connor says. “Nobody hates you.”

"Michaels hates me."

"Michaels doesn't hate you." He lets out a soft chuckle. "He's just bad with people, that's all."

“Well, Davis hates me.”

“Davis hates everyone,” Connor reminds him. “Sometimes, I think he hates me more than he hates everyone else. I don’t think he’s really okay with whole,” he waves a hand in the air; “gay thing.”

“Well, I like you,” Kevin says, reaching up and letting his fingers get tangled in Connor’s hair. He smiles, again, and it’s beautiful. “I like you a lot.”

A breath hitches in Connor’s throat and he thinks that if they were to step any closer, their lips would fall together into a kiss. “You do?”

Kevin nods, his eyes bearing into him with an intensity he isn't used to.

“So, do you, want to, um,” Connor nervously clears his throat, and ventures a bit closer to Kevin. As he does so, he can feel the man's fingers digging deeper into his hair. He suppresses a moan. “Do you want to, like,  _kiss me_  or something? Or—or is that not the kind of  _like_  you meant— _mph!_ ”

Their lips are already crashing together before he can get the words out and in one fell swoop, everything Connor had ever imagined about what kissing might feel like gets turned to dust. Dreaming about it and actually  _doing_  it are two entirely differently things. Kevin’s mouth doesn't taste quite like he imagined, though it's still very pleasant and intoxicating. He’d always imagined it might taste like freshly brewed coffee or spearmint or those chocolate chip cookies he loves so much, but it doesn’t taste like any of those things. It tastes warm and timid and a little bit musky and he can kinda, sorta taste some of the  _luwombo_  from their Christmas Eve party. Connor’s breath probably tastes like chicken and beer, but Kevin doesn’t seem to mind. He’s devouring Connor’s mouth with every ounce of his being and it makes Connor feel special and wanted and  _chosen_. Kevin has probably never kissed anyone before, Connor thinks, and  _especially_  not a boy. The thought makes Connor feel even more special as he melts deeper into the kiss. Kevin’s hands wrap around Connor’s waist and squeeze, before venturing down over his hips and his thighs and back up again, every touch feeling a little bit like what Connor used to imagine Heaven might feel like. He can feel the brush of Kevin's five o’clock shadow scratching at his chin and his hair is flopping down into their eyes and the world keeps on spinning, but Connor doesn’t even feel it. He feels lost, and hot and special and important— _so_ important—so important to  _Kevin_.

By the time they come up for air, the sun is already peeking over the horizon and Connor can see clearly now just how much of their skin is actually covered in dirt.

“That—,” Connor gasps, as their lips part; “that was the best Christmas present I’ve ever gotten in my entire life.” He pants for a moment, trying to catch his breath. “Thank you, Santa.”

The stupid comment makes Kevin’s eyes roll, but he laughs, anyway. They both do.

They lock hands together and continue on down the road, talking and laughing, as though their relationship has always been this way. The way Kevin’s palm feels against his own, warm and sweaty and nervous, makes Connor feel important again, like he’s important to someone, to  _Kevin_ , and he hopes that they’ll get to spend the next year and half exactly like this: making mistakes, making a difference, talking and laughing, pushing each other’s buttons, and kissing— _especially_  kissing, because Connor thinks he  _really_  likes kissing.

“You did good tonight,” Connor says, as they quietly approach the door to Kevin and Arnold’s room. “You’re a good person, Kevin Price—a  _really_ good person. Don’t you ever forget that, okay?”

“Connor, I’m going to see you in the morning.” Kevin yawns, then wipes sleepily at his eyes. “We’re gonna make pancakes, remember? Christmas pancakes shaped like little stars or something.” He then lets out another yawn, his eyes drooping just a little, and it makes Connor smile.

“Goodnight, silly,” he says, and presses a soft kiss to Kevin’s lips. They are just as warm as they had been before and it takes all the strength he has not to pull him into a rougher, deeper kiss, preferably with tongue. “Merry Christmas, Kevin.”

“Merry Christmas, Connor.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I really enjoyed writing this fic, and I appreciate any and all comments! You have no idea how much they mean to me, truly. Thank you, again and happy holidays!! :)
> 
> Also I just want to note that I know this fic was very Christmas-heavy, but that was in no way intended as a slight towards other faiths/traditions/customs. I was approaching from the point of view of Mormons, who are Christian and celebrate Christmas. My bf is actually half-Jewish (like Whizzer lmao). I just wanted to do something holiday-themed and used Christmas because, Mormons. If this were a Falsettos fic, I would have done Hanukkah, etc. Thanks, again! :)


End file.
